


Dirty Pretty Things

by arcadian_dream



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Community: femmefest, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Ginny attempts to settle into her new life without Harry, she finds herself seeking solace in a Knockturn Alley burlesque house. Within its walls, she finds Pansy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Pretty Things

Bright; too bright. The flickering lamplight shimmers; it bounces off of the wet cobblestones, casting shards of orange light over Ginny's pale, freckled features.

She shies away. Like some ungodly creature before the blazing glory of the sun, and pulls her cloak about her face, shrinking into its folds and the comfort of anonymity.

-*-

Pansy smooths her hair, tucking an errant strand behind her ear. She looks expectantly toward the door of her dressing room.

Nothing.

She sighs and, slipping a foot into the toe she slowly, slowly unrolls her fishnet stockings up over her ankles, calves and shins; over soft, smooth skin to which it clings and the curve of her knees. As she reaches her thigh, the door emits a gentle _click_.

"Well?" Pansy asks as Millicent enters.

Diffident, Millicent takes a long, steady drag of the cigarette that dangles from her lips. She exhales as she speaks; her words cloaked in a curling puff of white-grey smoke: "She'll be here, Pans," she says. "She always is."

-*-

Ginny takes a table at the back of the venue. Concealed in dancing half-shadows, she eases into her chair; she breathes. Resting her elbows on the table, she leans forward and signals to a nearby waitress. The young woman – clad only in corsetry and lacy lingerie – takes Ginny's order with a genial smile and heads to the bar.

Ginny waits; she trails a finger over the glossy surface of the tabletop, cutting wandering lines through the rings of ice water; a parting gift from the previous patron, she thinks.

She waits, and she thinks.

She thinks: I shouldn't be here.

-*-

Pansy thinks: it will begin the moment Ginny steps over the threshold and into the dressing room; the self-admonishment, stammered denials cascading like water. The way it always does.

_I shouldn't be here.  
I can't stay.  
I can't._

The same old song; a standard.

There is a rapping knock on the door; Millicent looks in on Pansy.

"They're ready for you," she says.

"Thanks, Millie." Pansy slips into her kitten heels – red, cherry red; the colour of Ginny's hair as it tumbles over her shoulders; the flush of her cheeks when Pansy kisses her.

Pansy takes a deep breath: she straightens her back and, strutting onto the stage to the familiar strains of her entry music, she purses her lips together in a coquettish pout; the mask of her performance.

-*-

The liquor is strong, cheap; it burns Ginny's mouth and ignites curling tendrils of heat that travel over her lips and tongue and pass, reaching, grasping into the pit of her belly. The music starts.

The waiting is over.

She sits back.

She watches.

-*-

They are boisterous tonight, the crowd. They bay at her, howling like wolves at the moon; grinning lasciviously as she dances; as she strips down, baring the softest parts of her body to their cold, hard stares.

-*-

There is something, Ginny thinks, about the spectacle of it: Pansy Parkinson, taunting, teasing (she always was good at that, after all), and peeling away layers of herself, which goes straight to Ginny's head.

It is, she thinks, intoxicating in a way that nothing else ever has been; it courses through Ginny's body, pulsating warmly.

It makes her head swim.

Or, that is what she would think, if she allowed herself to: to realise what it is that she has gotten herself into; of what she is now a part.

But she doesn't think because, if she doesn't, then maybe it isn't quite real.

But then, shifting awkwardly in her seat, Ginny knows that there is nothing unreal about the pooling warmth between her legs.

No: that ache is all too real.

-*-

The bass throbs, deep and guttural. It vibrates beneath Pansy's feet and rolls over her, through her; a cresting wave.

She turns away, her back to the audience. She tugs at the ribbons of her corset; she peeks over her shoulder - _Oh, I didn't see you there_.

It isn't long now, she knows; it isn't long at all.

-*-

Pansy discards piece after piece of her attire; she dances, she smiles.

White teeth flashing in the dark and the light.

It breaks and thrills Ginny at once. The facade; the suffering. The dullness in Pansy's eyes after the show, the hollowness that breeds within; metastasising night after night after night.

Ginny licks her lips.

It is always so much sweeter.

-*-

They applaud, they cheer.

They always do.

Pansy disappears from the audience's view as the curtain falls. With a long, mournful sigh, she collects her discarded garments. Millicent is waiting by the side of the stage with Pansy's silken, monogrammed robe. Pansy takes it from her and slipping into it walks hurriedly back to her dressing room.

Millicent follows: echoing her friend's steps, and her dissatisfied sigh.

-*-

Ginny polishes off her drink. It's warm, tacky almost, on her tongue. She pushes back her chair and shrinks into her cloak.

The last thing she needs is to be seen, here, in this place.

But the first thing, the only thing she needs right now, is Pansy.

-*-

In her dressing room, Pansy allows her robe to drop from her shoulders, skimming over her skin and collecting on the floor at her feet. She darts about, tending to her now-messy hair, wiping the sweat from her brow.

_Pathetic_, she thinks bitterly. _All this for bloody Ginny Weasley_.

-*-

"Is she in?" Ginny asks Millicent outside Pansy's dressing room. Millicent leans against the wall. She plucks a cigarette from her pocket and lights it, but does not answer Ginny's question.

"Well?" Ginny says impatiently. Millicent puffs on her cigarette and nods, silently.

"Thank you," Ginny says coldly as she raps gently on the door before going in.

Millicent watches the sweep of Ginny's robes as she edges into Pansy's room and Millicent; Millicent rolls her eyes contemptuously, her upper lip curling in distaste.

-*

"Pansy," Ginny says quietly as the door clicks shut behind her.

"Gin," Pansy pivots, rather more hurriedly than she would have liked or, rather, more hurriedly than she would like for Ginny to see.

"I -" Ginny begins, her gaze falling to the floor. As she does, Pansy can hear the opening bars of this, their song; a Ginny Weasley classic and tonight; tonight it is more than Pansy can bear.

"I know," she interjects, not allowing Ginny to complete her rendition of excuses and lies and things that separate them not only from one another but this, _them_, from the world; demarcating them in Ginny's mind, stuffing the two of them into a small, cramped space; the only place that Ginny will allow them to be.

The only place where she will allow Pansy to mean something to her.

Pansy takes Ginny in her arms, closing the space between them. Her breasts brush against Ginny's robes; cold night air still clings to the fabric and ignites shivers inside of her. She presses her lips to Ginny's, lightly; the kiss is fleeting and just as Ginny eases into it, Pansy pulls away, taking Ginny's bottom lip between her teeth and tugging, sharply.

"Pans," Ginny winces as her lip is released. "Please."

Ginny moves roughly against Pansy now, urging her backwards. The two stumble, entwined, against the dresser. Ginny attempts to hoist Pansy up onto the surface, knocking hairbrushes and make-up to the floor with a sweep of her arm, but Pansy resists. She slips out from Ginny's grasp and rounds on her. Pansy forces Ginny against the dresser now. She relieves Ginny of her robes and hooking her arms under Ginny's, Pansy pulls her close; so close Ginny thinks for a moment that Pansy is trying to take her into herself, their bodies irrevocably merging. Ginny struggles momentarily against Pansy's hold before conceding with a deep shuddering sigh as Pansy trails wet, languorous kisses over Ginny's neck, nipping and sucking on mouthfuls of soft, pale skin; devouring Ginny, piece by piece.

Taking Ginny's earlobe in her mouth, Pansy allows a hand to wander over the Ginny's torso: small-breasted and square, she is sharp lines and angles where Pansy, though slender, is delicate, malleable curves.

"Pansy, _please_," Ginny repeats, breathlessly.

"Wait," Pansy says, dragging her teeth over Ginny's neck before laying a bite on her shoulder.

_ "Please,"_ Ginny hisses, reaching around Pansy and clawing at her, eager to draw her closer, closer, closer.

"I – shouldn't – be – here," she stammers as Pansy's hand falls past her waist; the familiar feel of Pansy's fingers, that for which Ginny has been aching, breaking her apart.

-*-

Bright; too bright. The wan glare of an overcast morning weighs heavily on Ginny's closed eyes. With a groan, she rolls onto her side.

A few minutes pass, but Ginny, despite her fatigue, cannot find her way back to sleep. She rises from the tangle of bedclothes and stands before her mirror. She examines herself: her limbs, lethargic; her hair, usually smooth and well-kept, a dishevelled mess.

But the thing that she notices the most is the small things: the nail marks, small crescent-shaped indentations marking her belly; the curve of Pansy's bite on her shoulder; the bruised flesh and torn skin and each of these things, these dirty pretty things, she touches tenderly; almost lovingly.

And even as she does, she knows that she shouldn't.

She can't, she can't, she can't.

But as night falls once more she knows that she will.


End file.
